


pieces of what we used to call home

by eleanor_lavish



Category: A Gifted Man
Genre: First Time, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You’re a Mets fan,” Michael says flatly. Anton beams at him. “Of course you are.”</i></p><p><i>“I like lost causes, Michael,” he says, and hoists a load of lumber onto his shoulder, heading out to the patio.</i></p><p><i>“I was a Mets fan,” Anna says behind him. Michael closes his eyes.</i></p><p><i>“Of course you were,” he says, and she laughs.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	pieces of what we used to call home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so! I've finally managed to write fanfic for a show that _does not exist yet on the AO3_. *headdesk* (But really, if you don't watch this show, you should. It's fantastic.)
> 
> Thanks to gigantic, who gave me a reassuring thumbs up, and thanks to Pablo Schrieber and Patrick Wilson and the writers of 'A Gifted Man' who made this pairing painfully obvious in recent weeks.
> 
> Title from MGMT's "Pieces of What".

They’re not friends. Michael has friends - he has Evan and some med school buddies he plays tennis with, and now he guesses he has Zeke, and Kate. Michael is not _friends_ with a guy who reads auras, or lights candles in a meditation circle in the clinic, or spends his weekends on cleansing retreats in the far west of Nowhere, New Jersey. But when he gets to the clinic and Anton is there, smiling at him, helping him pull down boxes of gauze from the storeroom, it’s not a terrible thing. He still thinks Anton is certifiable, but he’s the one who talks to an apparition on a weekly basis, so.

Michael is trying hard to have an open mind when it comes to Anton’s beliefs. Or at least a closed mouth.

“You seem sad, Michael,” Anton says one day on the back patio. It’s Anna’s birthday; Michael hasn’t seen her. “Can I?” he says tentatively, and reaches out to place his hand over Michael’s heart. Michael can’t move, can’t think beyond, _why isn’t she here_. “Close your eyes,” Anton says quietly, and they both stand there for a moment, breathing together. When he opens his eyes, Anna is smiling at him.

“That’s... thank you,” he says, not looking away from her, but Anton just give his arm a squeeze and leaves without a word. “Happy Birthday,” he says, and Anna beams at him.

*

Anton is still at the clinic, even though the front of the building is better than new now, with hand-crafted benches in the waiting area. He even repainted one of the waiting rooms in blue and sea green, with a mural of sea creatures for kids to look at. He’s still here, though, measuring the back patio for a rain shelter, “so Zeke won’t get wet when he has to pretend he’s not smoking,” he winks.

“You realize you finished work here a month ago,” Michael says.

“I don’t think I did,” Anton says plainly, looking at Michael in that disconcertingly direct way. “Hand me that level?”

Michael gives it to him and leans back against the door. Anton works quietly on his knees, making small marks on the bricks, mimicking them in his notebook. It’s warm out again, after a cold, dark winter, and he’s in worn khaki pants and a tshirt that stretches across his shoulders like it’s a bit too small. Michael wonders if it’s hard for him to find clothes that fit, or if he has hippie friends who make them for him. The tshirt says ‘Rolling Stones 1987’ on it, though, so maybe not.

“When do you think you’ll be done?” Michael asks.

“That all depends,” Anton smiles back at him. Michael rolls his eyes and goes back inside.

*

“You’re a Mets fan,” Michael says flatly. Anton beams at him. “Of course you are.”

“I like lost causes, Michael,” he says, and hoists a load of lumber onto his shoulder, heading out to the patio.

“I was a Mets fan,” Anna says behind him. Michael closes his eyes.

“Of course you were,” he says, and she laughs.

*

He’s surprised when Christina starts dating Zeke, partly because Zeke is way too sane to date his sister, but mostly because he kind of thought...

“Oh, no, no,” Anton laughs. “I mean, your sister and I connect on some very deep, very spiritual levels. But never on a sexual one.”

“And that,” Michael says, looking back at his clipboard and ignoring the rush of blood to his cheeks, “is the last we ever need to say about that.”

Anton leans back against the wall and looks at him for a long minute. “Is it?” he asks, but when Michael looks up in confusion, Anton just slips out the door.

*

“She’s an amazing woman, why can’t you _see_ that?” Anton asks, and it’s the most upset Michael has ever seen him. “She’s not - “

“She doesn’t always make the best choices,” Michael snaps because he _knows_ his sister, and she’s kind and loving and a total fuck-up sometimes.

“They’re _her_ choices, Michael,” Anton says. Michael leans over the desk and glares at him.

“Fine, but she’s making them for Milo too. She can’t just let him not apply to college.”

“He doesn’t _want_ to - “

“I don’t care what he _wants_ , sometimes you have to do things that are hard and suck them up. Christina never learned that, but I’ll be damned if Milo doesn’t. He’s sixteen and he’s going to college!” Michael yells.

“Is that you talking, or your dad?” Anton says quietly, cuttingly. Michael stops breathing for a minute. “I- I’m sorry,” Anton says, as shaken as Michael feels. “I’m just... talk to him, okay? Talk to Milo. He’s a smart kid. He’s not making decisions based on nothing.”

“Fine,” Michael says, sitting down. His knees feel like jelly.

“You know,” Anton says, “I never went to college.”

“Shocking,” Michael deadpans, and Anton laughs. “Get out of my office,” he growls, but there’s no venom in it.

*

“I need your help,” he says, and it’s amazing how not-strange it is to ask, now.

Anton never asks why, or what for, or if he can wait. Anton grabs his mystical bag of shit that Michael doesn’t believe in except when he needs to, and says “Okay, let’s go.”

It doesn’t always work the way Michael wants it to, but he’s got to admit, Anton delivers. He sits by the bedside of a woman who is in more pain than Michael can even imagine, and he watches Anton lay his hands on her. He has stones and crystals and candles, but Michael kind of believes that’s all just bullshit to make people feel better about whatever it is Anton is doing with this hands, with his breathing, with his... with his heart. The woman cries, and Anton cries with her, and Michael gets up and stands by the doorway with his back to them because he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be _allowing_ this, but then the woman says “thank you, thank you,” over and over, and Michael feels something ease up in his chest.

They’re in the waiting room at Holt, and Anton is ashen, more shaken than Michael has seen him. “Sometimes it won’t go away on it’s own,” he says. “Sometimes you have to take it from them.”

Michael reaches out and places his hand on Anton’s shoulder. Anton tenses for a moment, then let’s out a shaky breath. “Come on, let me give you a ride home,” Michael says before Anton can go in for a hug.

Before Michael does.

*

He’s not a drinking man, not really, but this week has been bad, epically bad, worse even than the week where he lost lost Ron and Anna in one fowl swoop because at least with that one he got Anna. Or a mental illness. He’s still not honestly sure which. He hears a sigh behind him and turns, still twirling a glass of scotch.

“You gonna drink that?” Anna asks, her eyebrow raised. That look used to mean ‘either start your pity party or get the hell over it.’ He supposes it still does.

“Don’t know,” Michael says truthfully. It’s been nearly a year of this... delusion, this acute attack of Anna, and either she’s a ghost or he’s talking to himself, but Michael finally realized it was stupid to try and lie to her. Himself. Whichever.

“You did the best you could,” she says kindly, and Michael knows she means that. He knows that he did what he could do with the information available. But he still lost a ten-year-old girl at the clinic today to a cancer they should fucking have the cure for by now; he still had to tell a man at Holt Neuro that his only choice was dangerous surgery on a benign tumor or a slow decent into blindness. The guy chose blindness. Michael didn’t even argue with him. “Sometimes people surprise you,” Anna says. “Sometimes you surprise yourself.”

The doorbell rings, and when Michael looks up, she’s gone.

*

Anton shouldn’t fit in Michael’s sleek upper east side apartment, but somehow Anton fits in everywhere, leaning easily on the doorframe. “Thought you might like some company,” Anton says wryly. Before Michael can say “no, thank you” or “you really thought I would pick you?” or even “nah, my dead ex-wife is around here somewhere,” Anton holds up a sixpack of Yeungling and a bottle of Jameson’s. “Pick your poison,” he grins, and Michael lets him in.

*

“Today was shitty,” Anton says, sprawled across his couch.

Michael snorts. “I thought you were supposed to tell me that this is all part of the plan, that Kristy’s part of some mystical better place now.”

“Fuck, I don’t know where she is, Michael,” Anton says, rubbing his eyes. They sit there in silence for a long minute. “I felt her go,” he says quietly. “She didn’t want to.”

Michael stands up and goes to get more ice for his drink. This is awful, this is _fucked up_ and if Anton can’t at least give him _some_ modicum of comfort here, he’s going to need more whiskey. He grabs another beer for Anton.

“I’m sorry,” Anton says when he gets back. He’s sitting up now, this tired, resigned expression on his face. “I don’t have all the answers,” he says, looking right into Michael, right _through_ him.

“Neither do I,” Michael admits, and something inside him eases open, just a fraction. Anton smiles at him, small and real and kind and full of the same light that Anna always had, and Michael thinks, _Oh._

When Anton kisses him, Michael meets him halfway.

*

Michael doesn’t fuck guys - Ron was always very disappointed in his lack of experimentation - so he’s not sure where this is going, but the kissing is pretty fantastic. When they stand up, Anton keeps kissing him and Michael has to tip his head up, has to wrap his arm around Anton’s neck to keep his balance. Anton smiles against his mouth and spans two huge hands around Michael’s waist. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against Michael’s cheek and Michael’s stomach flips and turns.

“I don’t - ,” he says, but Anton kisses him again, walks him ten steps, twelve, twenty, back toward Michael’s bed.

“Whatever you want,” Anton says, sliding his fingers up under Michael’s shirt. “God, Michael,” he says, pulling him so close Michael is on his toes, Anton’s face tucked into the crook of his neck. “I thought you’d never figure it out,” he says, breathless, like he’s been _waiting_ , and Michael pulls him closer, feels him hard against his thigh and groans, completely involuntarily. “Christina said you - “

“No, no,” Michael says, pulling away a fraction but keeping his fingers firmly in the hem of Anton’s shirt. “You will _not_ tell me that you’ve discussed this with my sister. Lie to me, Anton,” he pleads and Anton’s throws his head back and laughs, then throws Michael backward a foot so he’s sprawled on his bedspread. Anton crawls over him, looming, and Michael thinks, _oh, god, he’s huge, is **all of him** huge?_. He’s suddenly not so sure; he’s really not a go-with-the-flow guy, no matter how much Anna worked on him, or how much Anton makes him re-evaluate his ordered life. Anton blushes faintly, like he can read Michael’s mind.

“What have you done?” he says quietly, taking Michael’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Almost nothing,” Michael admits, his cheeks burning. “But I am a doctor so...”

Anton grins. “What do you want to do?” he asks.

“Everything,” Michael breathes, because it’s true. Because Anton is the person who makes the least sense in his life, but makes the most sense _out of_ his life, like Anna had, and Michael isn’t too proud to admit right now, in this moment, that she was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. Anton is running a close second. It’s a terrifying realization, but Anton mitigates it, of course, as always, by leaning back on his heels and slowly peeling off his shirt. That’s certainly distracting.

“Is this okay?” he asks. Michael raises his eyebrows.

“Yes. Are you going to ask that every time you remove a piece of clothing?” he shoots back.

“Yes,” Anton nods, and Michael feels a knot of tension in his chest dissipate. Anton reaches out and lays his hand over the spot. “I know you,” he says, and Michael thinks _fuck, fuck you do_ , before Anton kisses him again, all wet heat and small moans as Michael’s hands tentatively map out acres of skin.

Clothes come off one piece at a time, and sometimes Anton’s mouth follows them, and sometimes Michael’s does. They twist and turn, and at one point Anton wraps one arm around Michael’s waist and flips them on the bed. It’s not something Michael is used to, but his cock jerks against Anton’s thigh as they land with a thud.

“You’re not used to being physically matched in bed,” Anton notes with a smile.

“I do okay,” Michael shoots back, not really knowing what else to say other than _no, not like this, can you do that again?_ Anton tucks his hands behind Michael’s thighs and yanks him a foot up the bed until he’s kneeling on either side of Anton’s chest.

“I think you should fuck my mouth,” Anton says, eyes glassy, and Michael doesn’t say a thing besides “Okay,” leaning his weight on his headboard and sliding his dick against the swell of Anton’s lower lip.

Michael doesn’t let himself go like this often, mostly because very few women he knows would ask for this, would seem to love it like Anton does, swallowing around the head of Michael’s cock every few strokes, one hand sliding up Michael’s stomach, the pad of his thumb rough against Michael’s nipples, over and over. He comes faster than he wants to, but he can’t seem to find the words to make this slow down. Anton won’t let him pull back, keeps him in place with a strong grip on the back of Michael’s thigh, and swallows, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Oh my god,” Michael manages and Anton reaches up to pull him back down, to kiss him, wet and dirty and oh, fuck, Michael didn’t know how to ask for this either. Anton’s hand finds his and pushes it down, down. Anton’s still in his underwear; Michael has the decency feel bad about that.

“I want... if you want,” Anton gasps, but Michael is already pushing the material down and away, slipping one leg between Anton’s to keep him pinned to the bed.

He’s huge, Michael _knew_ he would be, but somehow he’s got the upper hand, with Anton shaking underneath him, fingers knotting in the bedspread as Michael jerks him off in sure, hot strokes. Having steady, strong surgeons hands come in handy in other areas, Michael has found.

“Oh, _oh_ ,” Anton groans, and Michael leans in to kiss him again as Anton comes all over his fingers, gasping against Michael’s lips. “Michael,” Anton sighs, pressing their foreheads together. They both just breathe for a few long moments. Michael thinks this is when he should freak out, but he doesn’t really want to.

“How long have I not known?” he asks, and Anton chuckles against his temple.

“A while,” he breathes.

“Sorry about that,” Michael says and Anton pulls him closer, kisses him again.

“I forgive you,” he says, and tucks the covers around them both.

*

“Well, good morning,” Anna says. Michael opens his eyes to sunlight streaming through his window, and Anna perched on the edge of his bed.

“Oh my god, seriously? Now?” he asks, because this isn’t awkward at _all_.

"She's here, isn't she," Anton smiles into Michael's bare shoulder. Michael throws his arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to see either of them; they both laugh, one on either side of him, Anton's hand slipping comfortably over his hip.

"I like him," Anna says plainly.

"You like everybody," Michael replies, but there's a smile underneath it.

Anton presses a kiss to Michael's neck and rolls out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. "I'll let you two catch up," he says, and Michael blinks his eyes open. Anna is staring at Anton's retreating backside, naked and huge and beautiful.

"No seriously, I _really_ like him," she says with a sly grin.

"You - no tofu in my scrambled eggs," he says, pointing as Anton turns his head. "You," he says, turning back to Anna, "no more perving on my..."

"Your what?" Anna says with a smile. He looks back and Anton is still looking at him, beaming in the morning sunlight.

“Your what?” he says, and his smile reaches his eyes, his fingers, his toes, across the room to where Michael is laying there, naked and rumpled and _happy_.

"God, you are both insufferable," he sighs, and buries his head under the covers.


End file.
